Chapter 9
Three days passed before Merritt stopped thinking about Paula Maguire.
Or rather, three days passed before she stopped thinking about her constantly. The conversation replayed in her head during quiet moments, while she wiped down tables, while she stocked the bar, while she lay in bed watching the ceiling fan turn slow circles above her.
Some burdens can only be set down by the person carrying them.
Paula wasn't wrong. Merritt knew that. She'd learned it the hard way, sitting beside her mother's bed for years, watching a disease she couldn't cure slowly steal everything.
There had been moments, especially near the end, when she'd wanted so badly to take her mother's pain and carry it herself.
To lift that weight off her shoulders, even for a day.
But she couldn't. No one could. All she could do was sit there, hold her mother's hand, and bear witness.
Maybe that's what Paula was trying to tell her. That bearing witness was enough. That sometimes the kindest thing you could do for someone was simply to see them, without trying to fix what couldn't be fixed.
Merritt understood that. She did.
But understanding and accepting were different things.
On Thursday evening, a week after Paula's visit, the bar was quieter than usual.
A summer storm had rolled in around five, darkening the sky and sending most of the tourists scurrying back to their hotels.
Rain drummed against the windows in steady sheets, and the air smelled like wet sand and ozone.
Ed and Margie had come in anyway, because nothing kept them from their usual table. The fishermen were absent, probably riding out the storm at home. Dottie Hutchins sat at the bar nursing a glass of red wine, chatting with Crocker about something that made him almost smile.
And Ray was in his corner. Same as always.
Merritt watched him from across the room while she polished glasses.
He'd arrived later than usual tonight, around nine instead of eight.
His clothes were damp from the rain, his hair slicked back from his face.
He sat with his hands wrapped around his untouched Jameson, staring at something no one else could see.
He's a person, not a ghost.
That's what she'd told Justin. And she meant it. But the truth was, Ray made it hard to remember. He moved through the world like he was already gone, already faded into the background. If you didn't know to look for him, you might not see him at all.
But Merritt saw him. Every night, she saw him.
The storm picked up outside, thunder rolling across the sky like distant drums. A flash of lightning lit the windows, and for just a moment, the whole bar went silver. Merritt blinked, her eyes adjusting back to the warm glow of the string lights.
“Slow night,” Justin said, appearing beside her. He grabbed a towel and started drying the glasses she'd washed. “Storm's keeping everyone home.”
“I don't mind. It's peaceful.”
“If you like this now, wait until tourist season really kicks in. You'll be dreaming about slow nights.”
Merritt smiled but didn't respond. Her eyes drifted back to Ray's corner.
Justin followed her gaze. He didn't say anything, but she felt his attention sharpen. They hadn't talked about Paula since that afternoon. An unspoken agreement to let the subject rest.
“Hey,” Justin said quietly. “I've been meaning to ask you something.”
“What?”
“That guitar case in your apartment. I noticed it the other day when I went up to check the air conditioner.”
Merritt's hands stilled on the glass she was holding. “What about it?”
“You play?”
She hesitated. The question was simple, but the answer felt complicated.
Did she play? She used to. She'd played almost every day for years, until her mother died and then the music stopped.
She'd picked it up again in that garden, alone under the banyan tree, but that felt private. A secret she wasn't ready to share.
“I used to,” she said finally. “I'm trying to get back into it.”
“Any good?”
“I don't know. Maybe. I was, once.”
Justin set down his towel and leaned against the bar, studying her with those thoughtful eyes. “We've been talking about doing live music on slow nights. Nothing fancy, just someone playing acoustic in the corner. Crocker's been resistant, but I think it could work.”
“You want me to play?”
“I want to hear you play. And then maybe, if you're interested, we could try it out. See how it goes.”
Merritt felt something flutter in her chest. Fear, maybe. Or excitement. It was hard to tell the difference.
“I don't know,” she said. “It's been a while. I'm rusty.”
“So practice. And when you're ready, let me know.” Justin shrugged, easy and casual, like it didn't matter either way. “No pressure. Just an idea.”
He moved down the bar to help Dottie with a refill, leaving Merritt alone with her thoughts.
Live music. Playing for people. The idea terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure.
She'd performed before, years ago. Coffee shops in Portland, open mics in Boston.
She'd even played at a few weddings, back when she still had time for things like weddings.
But that was a different life. A different Merritt.
Could she do it again? Did she even want to?
She looked across the room at Ray, sitting alone in his corner. He hadn't moved since he arrived. His glass sat untouched, the whiskey catching the light from the string lights above.
Music had always been her refuge.
That's what she'd thought, sitting under the banyan tree with her guitar in her lap. Music had gotten her through the hardest times of her life. It had given her something to hold on to when everything else was slipping away.
Maybe it could do that for someone else, too.
The thought settled into her like a stone dropping into still water. Ripples spreading outward, touching everything.
She didn't say anything to Justin. Not yet. But when her shift ended and she climbed the stairs to her apartment, she didn't go straight to bed. Instead, she sat on the edge of her mattress and pulled her guitar case onto her lap.
The latches clicked open. The case exhaled the familiar smell of wood and rosin. She lifted the Martin out and settled it against her body, feeling the weight of it, the rightness of it.
And then she played.
Not for anyone. Not for Ray, or Justin, or the ghosts that haunted her. Just for herself. Just to remember what it felt like.
The rain drummed against the window. The wind sang through the eaves. And somewhere in the dark, the music found its way home.
It happened on a Tuesday, almost by accident.
The bar was quiet again. Another storm had blown through that afternoon, leaving the sky washed clean and the air soft with humidity.
Merritt had been practicing every night for a week, working through old songs, relearning the calluses on her fingertips.
She hadn't told Justin she was ready. She wasn't sure she ever would be.
But that evening, Crocker changed everything.
He came out of the back around seven, earlier than usual, carrying a wooden stool. He set it down in the corner near the windows, the spot where the light was warmest, and then looked at Merritt.
“Justin says you play guitar.”
It wasn't a question. Merritt glanced at Justin, who was suddenly very busy organizing bottles behind the bar.
“I do,” she said carefully. “A little.”
Crocker nodded once. “June used to love live music. Before she got sick, we'd drive over to Fort Myers on Friday nights. There was a little jazz club she liked. We'd sit in the back and listen for hours.”
He paused, his eyes going distant the way they sometimes did when he talked about his wife. Merritt waited, not wanting to interrupt.
“After she passed, I couldn't stand the sound of it,” he continued. “Music reminded me too much of her. So I kept this place quiet. No jukebox, no bands, nothing but Jimmy Buffett on the speakers because she hated Jimmy Buffett and it didn't make me think of her.”
Merritt felt something catch in her throat. She understood that kind of grief. The way certain things became unbearable because they held too much memory.
“But lately I've been thinking.” Crocker ran his hand along the top of the stool, smoothing the wood. “Maybe it's time. Maybe she'd want there to be music again. She always said this place needed more life.”
He looked at Merritt, and for the first time since she'd met him, she saw something vulnerable in his face. A question he wasn't quite asking.
“Would you play something?” he said. “Just for tonight. Just to see how it feels.”
Merritt's heart hammered against her ribs. She thought about saying no. She thought about all the reasons she wasn't ready, the rust in her fingers, the fear in her chest, the weight of performing for people who expected something from her.
But then she looked at Crocker, this man who talked to his dead wife every day and carried her memory like a sacred thing. And she couldn't refuse him.
“Okay,” she said. “Let me get my guitar.”
She climbed the stairs to her apartment on shaky legs. Her hands trembled as she lifted the Martin from its case. She stood there for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to calm the storm inside her.
You can do this. You've done it before.
But that was a long time ago. Before her mother. Before everything.
She walked back downstairs before she could talk herself out of it.
The bar had a few more people now. Ed and Margie at their table. A young couple near the door, tourists by the look of them. Dottie at the bar, watching with interest. And in the corner, alone as always, Ray Maguire.
Merritt settled onto the stool Crocker had placed for her. The wood was smooth and warm beneath her. She adjusted the guitar in her lap, checked the tuning by ear, and took a breath.
Justin caught her eye from behind the bar and nodded. Encouragement. Support.
She looked down at her hands on the strings and began to play.